by Tim Marquitz
He opened his eyes to see a Cruwarg close its jaws on Jerul’s neck. Another clung to the warrior’s sword arm. Arrin flung the corpse on his sword away and struck at the creature at Jerul’s throat. He cut its body away just as the Yvir stumbled and fell to his back. A wave of creatures crested the morbid hill then and crashed over top of them just as Arrin reached out for Jerul.
Arrin’s vision went black, a swarm of biting Cruwarg blotting out all sight. He lashed out with panicked strokes, some inner voice seeping through his fear to remind him of his critique of Jerul’s form, but he went on heedless of the sad irony. The creatures bit and clawed, and he felt strips of his flesh and muscle ripped away under their assault. He collapsed beneath their fury. Pain lanced through his body, from too many wounds to keep account of. Still he fought on. Every stroke was a trial. He was losing the fight.
Then they were gone.
Arrin blinked his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness and looked up into the scarred face of Braelyn. Kirah stood at her side, her purple eyes wet with tears that streaked her spotted fur.
“He lives,” Braelyn called out.
He heard the shouts of the Yviri warriors nearby, and raised his head. Sharp pains ran through his neck and back, but he spied the warriors clearing a pile of the Cruwarg bodies. A pale form lay beneath.
“Jerul?” he asked as he stared at the man’s limp arm.
Cael appeared before him, blocking his vision. The golden rod was in his hand. “You will be fine,” he said as he set the cold steel of the O’hra against Arrin’s chest. The flutter of its power was instant, its essence sinking into his veins.
Arrin let the relic wash his pain away, grunting as Kirah cut the Cruwarg’s jaw away from his leg. After a few moments, Cael hopped up and turned to Jerul. He set the rod against the warrior’s pale flesh. Jerul lay motionless. Arrin drew a deep breath. Jerul was dead.
“Cael,” he said, his voice ragged from exertion, “There are other who need your help.”
The young man pushed the rod harder against Jerul’s skin, but still nothing happened. He was too far gone for even the O’hra.
Arrin sat up and looked once more to Jerul as Cael fluttered above. The warrior lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the sky. The normally bright purple of his veins were a sallow black against his pale skin. A handful of Cruwarg heads were still attached to his body, black blood oozing from the wounds.
“I’m sorry.” Arrin reached out and set a hand on Cael’s shoulder. The boy shrugged it off, tears moistening his eyes as he stood. Cael staggered away. Arrin bit back a curse as he climbed to his feet and watched Cael go. They’d lost the boy’s uncle and now Domor’s blood-companion, Cael’s father having been run down by the Korme at the start of the war. Jerul was the last who Cael could call family, and now he was gone.
Arrin felt for the boy but there was still more they must do. He strode off to assess the damage. Bodies lay scattered across the desert sand with pieces of the creatures littered all about. They had lost another twenty warriors, at first glance. He looked to the Yvir and met their sad eyes. They were warriors and understood death, but the journey was wearing them down, especially after the unexpected assault by the Hull. They were losing people they cared for, brothers and sisters they had grown and fought with, laughed and cried alongside. They were family, and they were dying all because they believed Arrin knew what was best for Ahreele.
It was a burden that chafed at his conscience on top of all that Cael had suffered. Arrin hadn’t wanted any of it. His plan was to rescue Malya and his child, nothing more. Now he stood on the graves of soldiers and friends, with too many left behind and a certainty of more waiting to die ahead. He wondered how it had come to this.
The bitter stink of the Cruwarg still in his nose, he cast one last glance at Jerul and wished him well in death, before turning back to the rest. Cael had finished healing those who could still benefit from it, so it was time to move on. Once more making a decision that weighed upon the lives of everyone who followed him, Arrin motioned for the group to continue on. Bile in his throat, he turned and started toward the lake without saying a word. Braelyn met his pace.
Cael hurried after to join them. “We’re just going to leave them?” The words were thick with accusation.
Arrin simply nodded.
Cael raced around front, confronting Arrin and forcing him to stop with a trembling hand on his chest. “We can’t just leave Jerul in the dirt. Those…those…things will eat him.”
“Better the dead than us.” The moment the words were loose Arrin regretted them. Cael’s eyes went wide, his cheeks filling with color.
“I—”
Arrin cut him off. “I’m sorry, Cael, I don’t mean to be so callous.” He drew a deep breath through clenched teeth, and went on, setting his hands on Cael’s shoulders to keep the boy from storming off. “Jerul was a great warrior and a good man, but the longer we stay here in the desert, the more of us die.” He gestured toward the somber crowd of Velen and Yvir at their backs. “Every one of these people has lost someone they care about on this mad quest, and every moment brings the likelihood of yet another friend or family member dying. There simply isn’t time to worry about the dead now, as cruel as that might seem. When the war is over, that’s when we mourn, but now we soldier on, we fight…we survive.”
Tears glittered on Cael’s cheeks as he stared without saying a word. Arrin couldn’t tell if the boy understood, but like sentiment for the dead, there was no time for discussion. He slid his hands from his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said again as he stepped past Cael and went on. He could worry about hurt feelings later, if they lived.
Once more Braelyn moved alongside him, Kirah joining them a few moments after seeing Cael to the relative safety of the group.
“How much further,” Kirah asked, breaking the silence a short while later.
“Only a little beyond the lake,” Braelyn answered quietly.
Arrin caught a note of hesitance in her voice.
Kirah caught it, as well. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, I am, but I’m not sure this is the best path to take.” She gestured toward the lake with her chin. “Near here is where I encountered the worst resistance. We should skirt the lake a ways to avoid the creatures that lurk within.”
“Inside it?” Kirah asked.
Braelyn nodded. “Great tentacles with spikes the size of swords lashed out at me as I passed. I never saw the creature they belonged to, but I’m grateful for that.” She led their eyes with her finger, pointing a short distance from the shore. “There is where the worms flourish, their size and numbers much greater than those we have run across. We should go further around, but I fear we might stumble over something even worse.”
“Or there could be nothing,” Arrin stated without excitement.
Braelyn shrugged, but they all knew the likelihood of avoiding further conflict was slim. To spend more time in the desert was tantamount to suicide. The direct route would be best.
As he stared off toward the looming lake and the wavering shadows beyond, a thought struck him. He turned to Braelyn. “You said you ran the entire way from the mausoleum to Gurhtol and avoided the creatures?”
She nodded. “That is true, but these people cannot hope to reach the speed needed to slip past the beasts.”
“I was not thinking about them, only you.”
Braelyn looked at him, her eyes narrowing with her unspoken question.
“It is the sudden appearance of the creatures that is taking the greatest toll upon us. They appear and scatter our ranks and sow chaos. That is when we lose the most lives. Were we to know where they were, we could make ready and fight more organized, cutting our losses.”
She stared at Arrin a moment as if unsure of what he was asking. “You want me as bait?”
He shook his head. “Not bait. You k
now well enough you could return to the mausoleum with little trouble were you not saddled with us. What I’m asking is that you do so, and leave us a clear trail to follow. The creatures will rise at your passage and we will be able to determine where they are and meet them prepared to fight.”
Braelyn let loose a hoarse chuckle. “You would kill me to avoid having to help me home, Arrin. Admit it.”
Arrin joined her laughter. “If this fails, we will be dead before you and will meet you on the other side.”
The smile still on her face, she looked off past the lake. She drew a line with her finger. “Follow that path after I’m gone, and push the people to run. The creatures might not stay on the surface long enough for you to identify their positions. I would be quite angry to die for nothing.” She looked back at Arrin and winked. “See you soon, one way or another.”
Braelyn darted off. Arrin wasted no time, waving the Yvir and Velen forward. “Run!” he called out as he started off, Kirah alongside.
The mausoleum would be an oasis in the desert. It was the end of one journey and the beginning of yet another, but within its dead halls was the means to bring the chaos to a close and return Ahreele to a relative peace.
As he watched the twisted creatures of the desert burst from the sand on Braelyn’s trail, he hoped he would live to see such a day.
Chapter Thirty
It had been hours since Commander Feragh called out to the Pathra for a meeting with their chieftain. He paced, fighting the impatience that curled his upper lip into a snarl. Smoke still rose on the horizon, casting a pall over the sky and staining the sky black. The acrid scent tickled his nose as he cast a glance at the felines who gathered across the river.
We could well have circled about the lake and engaged the Grol already, Feragh mused as the passive gazes of the Pathra met his frustrated stare. He looked back toward Lathah and contemplated just that. Wulvren stood at ease behind him, giving Feragh adequate room to pace. The commander growled and went to the general’s side. The thunder of racing hooves drew his attention before he could voice his frustration for the fifth time.
A sweat-slicked horse slipped past the ranks and charged toward them. Yards away, the Tolen rider leapt free and ran to stand in front of Feragh. The mount clattered to a halt behind, kicking up dust.
“The army gathers to the south, commander. General Horg is at the head,” the messenger announced, his words tinged with excitement.
Feragh breathed a sigh. “Excellent. Find a fresh horse and tell Horg we will join him soon. And tell—”
Wulvren cut in. “Commander.”
Feragh turned to his general and saw movement at the Pathran line. A mass of feline warriors streamed from the trees, led by a great orange cat. Feragh looked back to the messenger. “Have Horg ready the men for battle and await my orders.” He waved the messenger away and strolled toward the river with heavy steps. General Wulvren clung to his heels, six Tolen soldiers breaking from the ranks to follow along.
Feragh approached the great cat who crossed the river with but a handful of his own soldiers, leaving the rest at the banks. Massive in size for a Pathra, he strode forward with confidence and unexpected grace. A lazy grin curled at his lips as his gray gaze settled on Feragh. He extended his hand as they closed. Feragh took it in his own, the grip strong and steady. The commander returned the grin as their hands slipped apart. The Pathra had sent no politician to bandy words and offer promises. He stood before a warrior born.
“Greetings, my friend. I am Commander Feragh.”
“Well met, commander. I am Quaii, warlord of the Pathran people.” He gave a subtle nod. “Thank you for your help with the Korme. Your arrival was well-timed.”
“Most certainly.”
“I have made arrangements for food and water for your men. My people will bring it to you soon.”
“That is quite gracious of you, Warlord Quaii, but our appetite is of another kind. The Korme provided us with no sustenance.” Feragh’s grin widened. “We would work with yours and slake our hunger on the Grol.”
“Then you are too late, commander.”
Feragh glanced off toward the spires of smoke that still rose into the sky, then back to the warlord. “What do you mean?”
Quaii motioned beyond the lake. “The Grol loosed their magic upon our homes and set them ablaze, but for some reason they chose not to advance. When at last we thought they might, they turned tail and marched south, the whole of them.”
The commander’s followed to where Quaii pointed, his gaze landing on the distant shape of the Fortress Mountains. “They have returned to Lathah?” He looked back to Quaii.
The warlord shrugged. “I don’t claim to know the Grol mind, such as it is, but there was purpose in their retreat. They marched with haste despite us not once crossing swords.”
Feragh looked to Wulvren. “Could they have been alerted to Horg?”
“Doubtful,” the general answered without hesitation. “Horg would have scouts ahead of the legions, making sure no Grol spy picked out their approach.”
“Then they must have some other objective. We must find out what it is,” Feragh said in a quiet voice as he turned back to the warlord, doing his best to hide his confusion. “Forgive my rudeness, warlord, but it is the Grol I seek. For them to turn tail after so much carnage, the beasts must be about an even fouler purpose. You are welcome to join us, but we must follow after before they succeed at their effort.”
Quaii nodded. “I have fires to put out, commander, and my people to see to. Go on ahead. We will join you when circumstances permit.”
Feragh proffered his hand in answer. He smiled as the warlord took it. “Best of luck then, friend, but don’t wait too long, for there won’t be any Grol left.”
“Then you’ve done us a service.” The warlord bowed and slipped his hand loose. He gathered his men about him and said his farewells, heading back to the dense jungle.
Feragh watched for a moment, only waiting until Quaii was out of sight before he turned to Wulvren. “Draw the men in. We march with all haste to meet with Horg.”
The general was off shouting orders before the last word fell from Feragh’s lips. The commander looked to the south, excitement tingling in his veins. He no longer marched with a single legion against the Grol, but with a thousand. Once he took command of the army Horg had brought him, Feragh felt certain he could tame the wild beasts no matter the magic they hid behind.
Feragh listened to the rumble of his men as they drew closer, his pulse thundering in time. Battle was soon to come.
Chapter Thirty-One
Every footstep boomed in the silence. Domor felt his heart shudder with every fall of his heel, certain his next would bring the Hespayrins storming out of the darkness to stop their flight. So far, none had, but still his breath clutched to his lungs. Zalee hung in his arms, little more than dead weight now that the adrenaline of their escape from Illraine had worn off. He struggled to support her, the Sha’ree’s slim figure deceiving. She was thick with muscle, her body like stone beneath the soft, wounded flesh.
But for all her inherent strength, she had little of it now. Her skin oozed with blood and yellowed pus. Sultae had done her much harm before returning her to the room where Domor had been chained. He looked once more to the layers of cuts and bruises and burns that littered her body and was surprised to see a few had begun to heal. Though there was little speed to their rejuvenation, the skin softening and pulling together in glacial movements, it was a miracle she could recover at all.
Zalee’s pink stare drew his focus. She forced a smile, and whispered, “I will be fine.”
Domor heard the hope in her words. He had none. They were still deep inside Hespayr, lost in a maze of dark stone corridors, which all looked the same to Domor. While Zalee subtly led him at each intersection, he could feel no sense of them ascending from the bleaknes
s of the underground city. The darkness seemed to swallow them, growing deeper and more threatening at every turn. He could foresee a violent end to their attempted escape.
Worse still was that he almost wanted one. His guilt weighed upon his shoulders, dragging him down even more than Zalee did. He had told Sultae all he knew of the plans to meet the Grol with an army prepared with Sha’ree magic. Domor had even told her where the group was headed before her stony minions captured them. He wondered if escaping Hespayr was truly the best thing he could do. Only death awaited him, in here or out there, but it was no less than he deserved.
Cael traveled with Arrin, and those who had escaped the Hull ambush, but even then, Domor had sent the furious Sha’ree after his nephew. He hadn’t given it a thought until now. Domor had thought of nothing but his own life, his own safety, and yet his confession had done nothing to protect him. It was only a matter of time until Sultae captured or killed Arrin’s group—and Cael—and returned to slaughter Domor all the same. What purpose could she have with a cowardly Velen who would so willingly give up his own family for but a few more extra moments of a pathetic life?
What would Jerul think?
Domor sighed at the thought of his blood-companion. He, too, was amongst Arrin’s group and would feel the Sha’ree’s wrath once she found them. Jerul’s death would also be on Domor’s shoulders. He reached out through the dim bond they shared, but only emptiness answered.
A chill drew him up short. He stopped and loosed a tired sigh.
“What is wrong?” Zalee asked, straightening as best she could.
He met her weary gaze. “I have failed everyone…myself, most of all.” Domor shifted Zalee and pressed her into a shadowed alcove, nearly hidden to the side of the corridor. “Do you know the way from here?”
She leveraged herself against the stone and nodded. “We have only to travel a little further before the halls split to the west and lead us to the surface.”
